Out of morbid curiosity or extreme boredom -- perhaps the MDM2 SNP309 allelle hasn't been giving out much exciting information lately -- my dad has begun reading my blog again. As those of you are aware who have read the blog recently, I am essentially (though, thank God, temporarily) incapacitated by a case of myositis, which is a painful inflammation of voluntary muscles, most typically large muscles. Myositis can occur from a variety of causes, but in my case, it appears to have been triggered by a case of influenza. Millions of people a year catch the flu, yet how many develop myositis? I'm just lucky in that way. Then again, some people die from the flu, and the last time I checked, my heart was still beating regularly, so I probably should cease with complaining.
Anyway, whenever my dad has reason to read my blog, he critiques it, makes fun of it, or generally has very few positive things to say about it. What does he expect me to do if I do not blog, or precisely what does he think I should blog about? I suppose I could detail every specific ache or pain than plagues me, as in "My deltoid muscles were giving me considerable trouble today, as were my quadriceps femoris." (It reminds me of a bad commercial from a year or two ago where some lady with fibromyalgia was keeping a journal of her discomfort and reading it for the TV viewing audience.) I suppose I could also count the raised patterns in the textured ceiling of my room and report to everyone about it. That would certainly make for some exciting reading.
Instead, since nothing much is going on in my world right now, I've written a bit about things from the past. My dad seems to think I'm just a little too young to start writing my memoirs. He says I'm going to become the next Billie Jean King, who wrote one autobiography, then decided that the accomplishments in her life were such that a single volume would not do, so she wrote an additional autobiography to supplement, supplant, contradict, or clarify her original work. (My dad likes to point out that Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Winston Churchill, and John Wooden, among others, managed to autobiographize themselves in a single volume each, and he wonders what in Billie Jean King's life was so distinguished that she required a second work to tell her story, but that's a subject for another day, and I'll let my dad discuss it since it's his obsession and not mine.) I try to explain to him that this is merely a blog as opposed to a biography, but he isn't hearing what I have to say. He's too busy walking around the house doing his best Elvis impersonation, singing, "Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind. . ."
My dad likens my blog to that of poor Wayne Osmond. Mr. Osmond had a brain tumor, which was, I think, treated with both surgery and chemotherapy. He more recently suffered a stroke. He's been relating his memories to his wife, who has been typing them and posting them on a website. According to my dad, Mr. Osmond's blogging is more excusable than mine because 1) he was involved with show business and has more interesting experiences to share than I do; 2) he suffered a brain tumor and a stroke, which renders any lapses in judgement on his part far more excusable than similar lapses in judgement on my part.
All of this notwithstanding, my father kept a journal in his teen years, as Mormons are encouraged to do. The journal is stored way somewhere in my grandparents' home. I will find my father's journal if I have to break into my grandparents home and scour the place when my grandparents are touring New Zealand or Western Samoa on some excursion for their church. I'll post a few of the more choice entries. Then I'll allow my readers to make their own conclusions as to youthful lapses in judgement.
In the name of greasy French fries, Amen.
Anyway, whenever my dad has reason to read my blog, he critiques it, makes fun of it, or generally has very few positive things to say about it. What does he expect me to do if I do not blog, or precisely what does he think I should blog about? I suppose I could detail every specific ache or pain than plagues me, as in "My deltoid muscles were giving me considerable trouble today, as were my quadriceps femoris." (It reminds me of a bad commercial from a year or two ago where some lady with fibromyalgia was keeping a journal of her discomfort and reading it for the TV viewing audience.) I suppose I could also count the raised patterns in the textured ceiling of my room and report to everyone about it. That would certainly make for some exciting reading.
Instead, since nothing much is going on in my world right now, I've written a bit about things from the past. My dad seems to think I'm just a little too young to start writing my memoirs. He says I'm going to become the next Billie Jean King, who wrote one autobiography, then decided that the accomplishments in her life were such that a single volume would not do, so she wrote an additional autobiography to supplement, supplant, contradict, or clarify her original work. (My dad likes to point out that Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Winston Churchill, and John Wooden, among others, managed to autobiographize themselves in a single volume each, and he wonders what in Billie Jean King's life was so distinguished that she required a second work to tell her story, but that's a subject for another day, and I'll let my dad discuss it since it's his obsession and not mine.) I try to explain to him that this is merely a blog as opposed to a biography, but he isn't hearing what I have to say. He's too busy walking around the house doing his best Elvis impersonation, singing, "Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind. . ."
My dad likens my blog to that of poor Wayne Osmond. Mr. Osmond had a brain tumor, which was, I think, treated with both surgery and chemotherapy. He more recently suffered a stroke. He's been relating his memories to his wife, who has been typing them and posting them on a website. According to my dad, Mr. Osmond's blogging is more excusable than mine because 1) he was involved with show business and has more interesting experiences to share than I do; 2) he suffered a brain tumor and a stroke, which renders any lapses in judgement on his part far more excusable than similar lapses in judgement on my part.
All of this notwithstanding, my father kept a journal in his teen years, as Mormons are encouraged to do. The journal is stored way somewhere in my grandparents' home. I will find my father's journal if I have to break into my grandparents home and scour the place when my grandparents are touring New Zealand or Western Samoa on some excursion for their church. I'll post a few of the more choice entries. Then I'll allow my readers to make their own conclusions as to youthful lapses in judgement.
In the name of greasy French fries, Amen.
